


Bitter Pride

by Nary



Category: Rome
Genre: Bitterness, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fingerfucking, Incest, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Nipple Play, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I won't have any daughter of mine dishonour our family by going to her wedding looking like she's three days dead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Pride

"You want to look pretty for him, don't you?"

"No." Octavia sits holding the mirror, sullen. "I don't."

"By the gods, girl, you look as though you're going to your funeral." Atia fights back the urge to smash all of the cosmetics and perfumes against the wall. "You'll be bound to enjoy yourself, he's a skilled lover..."

"Mother, I don't want to hear about how well he fucked you."

It's said with resignation, not disgust, but Atia still has to turn away so she doesn't slap the girl. "I won't have any daughter of mine dishonour our family by going to her wedding looking like she's three days dead."

The slaves have already dealt with Octavia's unruly hair, piling it and curling it carefully atop her head, but Atia's sent them away to finish the job herself. She rouges Octavia's cheeks, but the colour looks flat, painted on. It's hopeless if the girl won't put a little effort into it.

"Your gown cost enough, you can at least try not to make it look awful." Atia strokes the pink silk and imagines shredding it between her fingers. She reaches down her daughter's chest and pinches her nipples through the costly fabric, hard. Octavia winces and gives a little squeal at that. "Oh hush," her mother says, "your breasts could stand to perk up a little."

"You're one to talk," Octavia mutters. Atia arches an eyebrow. She never suckled her children personally, of course, and her breasts are still fine for a woman of her age.

She daubs sandalwood and almond oil behind her daughter's ears, at her wrists, between her breasts, carefully, so as not to stain the gown. She watches a single bead of oil slide down her daughter's torso, still smooth and flat and creamy, the way hers was on her wedding day. "Open your legs," she tells her, and for once Octavia does as she's told.

Atia kneels in front of her daughter, spreads her freshly-depilated lips, and dribbles a little perfume there as well. She wonders why she bothers – Anthony won't notice, and yet she wants to do this last thing for him, to please him. It's pathetic, but she can't help herself. Her fingers, almost of their own free will, work against Octavia's entry – the girl's no virgin, of course, so there's no risk of bloodshed – and she imagines Anthony doing the same thing in a few hours' time.

"Mother!" Octavia shows some emotion for the first time. "What are you doing?"

"Waking you up," she replies. "Wouldn't you rather be slick and ready for your new husband?"

"Then get a slave to do that, if you truly think it's necessary."

"No slave is going to have her dirty fingers in my daughter's cunt, especially not today of all days." Atia keeps going, trying to remember the last time she actually believed her daughter loved her. She can't do it. Octavia's cheeks are more honestly flushed now, and her hips give a little twitch, pushing her forward onto her mother's oiled fingers with a gasp. Atia's inside her, feeling how tight she still is despite her first husband and that pleb soldier and however many other cocks she's had, and she hates her for being young and beautiful and not appreciating what she's being given. She presses her daughter's clit with her thumb, soft and cruel, and watches as she shudders and leans back, wanton and almost eager. "Stop squirming, you'll ruin your hair," she tells her with disgust, and pulls out, wiping her hands on the edge of her stole.

"Mama," Octavia begins, pleading or trying to explain, but Atia hushes her.

"When you've had children, you'll understand. And you'll thank me." She stands, her voice oozing bitter pride. "Now. _Now_ you look lovely."


End file.
